If you can look out your window, you can set the world on fire. The black flames of vengeance seethe in silent embrace with warm, glowing wrath. Self-respect is
earned by slowly and viciously burning your soul in its grave.

Crash land on the surface of my brain; it’s not fit for a runway, not built to withstand all of this pressure and weight. When the little men step out of the cranial
spacecraft, they look around for signs of life. But there are none. Now, the carcasses of bitter youths litter the ground, pink and vaguely translucent. The sun stains their retinas gold and sucks
life into itself, siphoning off their blood through bone-white straws, collected in leaking bowls.

I sat on the ledge and looked down. Squinting, I could see the edge of the Earth, corners folded back. If someone were to grab a corner and pull, they could peel off
the top layer like a Band-Aid, revealing the bleached, immaculate bones underneath, toothpicks in the mouth of the yawning abyss. And concealed by the bones, the machines pound and clang, running
on blood and tequila.

Those who remain are facing a grim reality. In the sunlight, they writhe on the ground, skin bubbling in the heat, like an insect in agonizing helplessness, anguish
in their black shark eyes, twitching and bulging under the rays of white death. They try to escape, only to be spotted by the bright cocaine floodlights, wincing in pain and fear.

There’s no such thing as a free lunch, and instead of spending quality time with friends and family, I endured this hour in exile, the taste of wanting on my tongue,
and a summer that never ends. The brutal banality is mine. And I will adore it, cherish it, even when my body is gone. This artificial dream synthesis is even more comforting than I could ever
imagine. And in a dramatic, moonlit, last-ditch effort to appear normal, I let my sanity slip through my fingers, while my mind shriveled up and turned to slime in my shoes.